


Inconsequential Detour

by LearnedFoot



Series: Doctor Who/MCU Crossovers [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crossover, Developing Friendships, Engineering, First Meetings, Gen, Vaguely Ominous Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Rocket planned to be good, but then he notices the lady with the stupid pants.
Relationships: Rocket Raccoon & Thirteenth Doctor
Series: Doctor Who/MCU Crossovers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749667
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside)





	Inconsequential Detour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartbeatstumbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbeatstumbles/gifts).



> This fic is in fact a prime number of words :D

Rocket planned to be good. He got in, acquired a once-in-a-lifetime gun by exchanging actual, hard-earned cash with an almost-legitimate dealer, got out, and just briefly stopped for a well-earned celebratory drink or two. Maybe three. But definitely back to the Milano by morning, just like he promised. He’s got a baby tree to look after, he’s doing his best here.

But then he notices the lady with the stupid pants whip out a doohickey and fix a malfunctioning beer tap with a single wave. He’s never seen anything that can do that. He wants it. And she’s just out here, flapping it around, practically begging for it to be stolen. He’s supposed to ignore that? No way.

Besides, what’s one itty, bitty, inconsequential little detour? Quill—and more importantly, Gamora, whose threat to shave his tail if he gets in trouble felt a little too specific to be a joke—never needs to know.

He nurses his beer and watches the mark. She’s full of smiles, befriending everyone, not staying in any one conversation for long. Looking for information, obviously—which might mean she’s after her own score. Maybe the better plan is to trail her, see what she’s up to—

No. He’s gonna be good. Just the doohickey. In and out, easy.

He waits, and when she finally leaves the bar, he slips out after her.

***

She’s a brisk walker and, annoyingly, very talented at staying in just the wrong place. She slips to the side of the packed-dirt road as soon as she’s out of the bar, keeping under the flickering streetlamps, out of the way of the throngs of Ravagers and scavengers looking for a good time. She’s probably trying to avoid bumping the wrong drunk muscle itching for a fight, but the side-effect is Rocket can’t get close enough to make a grab for her pockets without being noticed.

He should give up. She’s nearing the outskirts of the ramshackle town, and beyond that is nothing but trees. On second thought, maybe he could startle her in the forest, snatch the thing in the dark—

Just as a plan is starting to form in his mind, she takes a sharp left down a narrow alley and disappears into a blue box. A blue...police box? Rocket reads the words again. Yep, that’s what it says.

“What the—?”

He scampers to the box and claws his way up the side. He means to peak in the windows, but before he gets the chance the door opens again and the woman peers out.

“You’re a persistent one,” she comments, tilting her face up at him. “Well, come on in.”

“Uhhh.” It’s not that Rocket has never been caught before. It’s a blow to his professional pride, but it’s not unheard of. The person he’s attempting to rob inviting him in, though? That’s a new one.

“I was being polite,” the woman adds with urgency. “Unless you want to die in the next thirty second, get in the box. _Now_.”

Rocket gets in the stupid box.

***

“Whoa.” He blinks. Blinks again. Yep, he’s not making it up: the box is definitely bigger on the inside. Though once he gets over that, it’s the interior decorating choices that give him real pause. “You design this thing on a bad trip or something?”

The woman has dashed to what is clearly the control panel, and is frantically banging at it in a way that suggests she’s planning to go somewhere. Which suggests this is a ship. Which suggests Rocket might be very late getting back to _his_ ship, and there goes his tail. No thank you.

“Hey, lady. I don’t remember agreeing to be kidnapped.”

As he’s saying it, the woman slams down a lever. The ship—definitely a ship—makes a sound like it’s falling apart from the inside out, shivers, and then goes silent. She pulls a screen forward and crinkles her nose.

“We’ve moved exactly one mile to the north. Not much of a kidnapping, is it?”

“We did not just move a mile,” Rocket protests. They didn’t even take off. That was a failure to launch if he ever heard one.

“Did so! Problem is, we were meant to go to the other side of the planet. I have a flesh-eating smoke monster chasing my T.A.R.D.I.S., a master mechanic who apparently fled this planet last week, nowhere to run, and now,” she spins, fixing Rocket with a curious look, “you. You don’t happen to know about any of the rest of it, do you?”

“Did you say smoke monster?” Rocket repeats, head spinning. How did he manage to find the one person in this quadrant as infuriating as Quill?

“Ryan named it,” the woman states, as if Rocket should have any idea who Ryan is. “At least he’s safe. Small favors.” She sighs, stretching her neck. The manic energy that has been radiating from her every pore since the bar drains away, and for a brief flicker she looks as exhausted as if she’s come out of a fight. “It’s a misnomer, of course. It’s actually interdimensional semi-sentient particle matter—”

“Don’t care,” Rocket cuts in. Once the word _flesh-eating_ is tossed around, he’s done. “Thanks for the lift, lady, but I’m outta here.”

“Oh no you’re not. Not unless you want to run into Smokey. Me, I’d say that's a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘Smokey’? The flesh-eating nightmare has a silly nickname?”

As quickly as it left, the woman’s energy returns, reverberating through the room as she launches herself away from the controls and across the distance between them. She stops in front of Rocket and crouches, placing herself at eye level. 

“I’m the Doctor,” she says, extending her hand. “And you picked a bad night to try to steal from me.”

Rocket ignores the offered hand. “I wasn’t—”

“You were!” She’s surprisingly chipper about it, given the givens. “You think I didn’t notice a gorgeous creature like you?”

Rocket chokes. “ _Gorgeous_?”

“Never seen anything like you! I had my eye on you all night—which is how I know you like my screwdriver.”

She produces the object. Another dumb name: even up close, the thing does not look much like a screwdriver. It does, however, make a delicious humming noise when she flicks it on. Rocket itches to hold it.

“Sonic,” the Doctor explains. “Made it myself. You have good taste.” She returns it to her pocket; Rocket watches it disappear with a pang. “You can’t have it, of course, but I appreciate a connoisseur. Now, do you have a name?”

“Rocket,” Rocket says automatically. Hey, at least he can appreciate someone who appreciates connoisseurs. That’s a point in her favor. “Tell me again why I shouldn’t ditch you before the flesh-eating inter-whatever shows up?”

“Oh, you probably should have,” the Doctor says, suddenly moving again, back to the controls. Rocket’s getting tired just watching her. “Unfortunately, you missed your chance somewhere around the world _smoke monster_. It’s already outside.”

Well. That is unfortunate.

“Alright, move this thing again,” Rocket suggests, kicking the floor. “Bring me back to town, I’m a good sprinter. Throw in that screwdriver, I’ll even bring my team back to help. We’re good at fighting monsters if the price is right.”

The Doctor snorts, shooting him a look that is somehow both amused and disapproving. “First you try to steal it, now you’re bargaining your help when I could die?”

Rocket shrugs. “Hey, you’re the one who kidnapped me into danger here, lady. No one’s got the moral high ground.”

“Actually, _I_ saved your life. Smokey would’ve caught up with you in seconds if you’d stayed on the outside of the T.A.R.D.I.S.” She shakes her head, pulling at the lever that had launched the ship before. Nothing. “Besides, my girl isn’t going anywhere until I figure out what’s wrong with her, so how’s this for a bargain: we work together, and maybe we both get out of this alive.”

Rocket sighs, turning his paws up in defeat. “Deal.”

“Great!” She honestly does sound like she thinks it’s great, too. It’s very disconcerting. “So, Mr. Connoisseur, what do you know about engineering?”

***

Getting his paws into the guts of the T.A.R.D.I.S. is almost worth the bone-deep anxiety that pervades the atmosphere as they work. Everything feels just a little too cold, as if the air knows something evil is lurking outside. But inside—oh, those insides. He’s never seen anything like it: time coils and cross-universe thrusters; science completely beyond him and yet totally intuitive once he lets the ship teach him, following the wires as they tell him where they want to go.

“A spaceship is a spaceship, even if it’s all special,” he comments after an hour of digging around. “Same as weapons. If this thing were a bomb, I’d already be done.”

The Doctors sighs from where she’s hidden beneath some of the floor grating. “You worry me.”

“You’re the one who named the death monster ‘Smokey.’ _That’s_ worrying.”

She doesn’t reply, but he can hear her quietly laugh.

***

It takes a few hours, but together they fix the ship. The Doctor thrusts them into space, orbiting close around a sun until the monster melts away, particles splitting apart in bursts of color.

To Rocket’s complete disbelief, the Doctor looks sad about it.

“It was a unique creature,” she explains as the fireworks fade. “I always like a unique creature, no matter how much they destroy.” She glares down at Rocket. “Or how many times they try to steal my screwdriver.”

Rocket pulls his paw out of her pocket with a shrug. “Worth a shot.”

“Just for that, I should drop you off late. Let your friends have a field day on that tail of yours.”

But she’s grinning. Before Rocket can come up with a retort, she crouches and extends her hand. He takes it without hesitating.

“Good working with you,” he says, and is surprised to find he means it.

“It’s been an honor, Rocket,” the Doctor replies, so sincere it almost hurts. “Now, let’s get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3
> 
> Also, I went completely insane with this exchange and wrote about 20k in a week. Please, _please_ point out the inevitable typos that made it through. I promise I will be grateful, not annoyed.


End file.
